How are you spending your last day on Earth?

I don’t believe the world is going to end in 72 hours. But I reject the calculations of end-of-world prognosticator Harold Camping in the same way that I don’t really think something horrible is going to happen to my family if I inhale while driving through a tunnel — yet always hold my breath anyway. You know, just to be safe …

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The yard work can wait.

I’m guessing a lot of people feel like I do about this latest prophecy of doom:

1. Thinking first and foremost that Camping is crazy …

2. … with a shred of grudging respect to the guy for calling his shot and sticking with it …

3. … which will turn to anger if May 22 arrives and the prophet takes credit for somehow “saving” us.

Praying for my salvation at this point seems futile, and I’m not sure I would even want to try. I’m sitting out any rapture that doesn’t acknowledge same-sex marriage.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be doing any yard work this weekend, either. Maybe we should think of this crackpot as half-full. Eat Frosted Flakes for breakfast. Listen to “Exile on Main Street” one more time. Make love to your old lady. May 21 can be a reminder that every day should be treated like the last day on the planet.

My plans for Saturday are below. Yours in the comments.

Play basketball in the morning. Nothing special here. I play basketball every Saturday morning. But this week I’ll be jacking up a shot every single time I get the ball. The opposing team would be smart to quintuple team me, because in my mind, May 21 is a day without teammates. “The world’s ending, boys, no time to pass the ball!” My projected final stat line for the day: 11-for-59 FG, 7 steals (including 5 from my own players), 0 assists. (Note to self: Buy this jersey for the occasion.)

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Deliver me from evil …

Wear a tracksuit all day. If I’m going to be judged harshly by my maker, I want to be comfortable doing it. If the weather is nice, I reserve the right to call an audible and spend the day in my “Star Wars” Death Star pajama bottoms and a white tank top. And no shaving. I’m sure there are plenty of razors in hell.

Go to the Maker Faire. The Maker Faire isn’t as high on my bucket list as going to a Super Bowl or having breakfast in a cafe in Venice. But it’s happening this weekend in San Mateo. And when the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse arrive, I have to think the safest place to be is near the guys with the makeshift flamethrowers and gladiator robots.

Order Indian food from Khana Peena. I won’t be cashing in my 401K this weekend. But I’m willing to hedge my bets enough to blow $40 on some good chicken korma and saag paneer. (Just to prove I’m not really getting behind this crap, there will be plenty of leftovers in the refrigerator.)

Ignore my fantasy team I’m sure at least one of my fantasy baseball colleagues will read this post and try to take advantage of my weakened state. (No, Justin, you can’t have Joey Votto for Casey Blake and Sergio Romo.) But despite the fact that I have two pitchers starting on Saturday, I won’t be checking the scores, either. I’ll find out what happened Sunday morning …

How will you spend your last day on Earth?

PETER HARTLAUB is the pop culture critic at the San Francisco Chronicle and founder of this parenting blog, which admittedly sometimes has nothing to do with parenting. Follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/peterhartlaub. Your questions answered on VYou at www.vyou.com/peterhartlaub.